The More Things Change
by E. Magnus
Summary: A Suikoden story featuring an older Nash Latkje: Nothing changes too much. His past quickly resurrecting, can Nash withstand the tide of the Black Moon? Ongoing.


Fritz pressed hard against the chill marble slate of the altar, daring an occasional glance over to his companions scattered across the service hall. Each apprentice gunner hid separately – Martin and Werner were behind pillars on opposing sides, Arvin crouched low within the folds of a faded, worm-worn tapestry, and Karl was nestled nervously between the rotted pews. Fritz traced thin, delicate fingers against the inlaid metal filigree decorating his harquebus and sought to control his breathing. It was all the dark-haired youth could manage in an attempt to keep the anxiety and unprofessional trepidation from consuming his concentration.

One single, successful volley, he reminded himself. Wound the target. Withdraw. No attempt at heroics beyond this point would be tolerated by the Howling Voice. Once the target has been impaired, the task of elimination would fall to their superior, Zaj of the Black Moon. Those with the sense to follow these orders and live would each receive a promotion as well as prestige within the Guild. For a third-class citizen like Fritz, such increase in stature was monumental.

The frigid winter wind billowed in from outside, sharply whistling through the brittle mortar and howling harshly as it passed through the jagged remains of stained glass. The draft invaded past his heavy burgundy cloak, though did nothing to break his renewed vigilance. Shrill, taunting laughter shattered the haunting dirge of the wind.

The mark was close.

From their places in the shadows the apprentice gunners waited at the ready. The soft click of hammers being pulled back and locked in place dictated the passage of time. One firearm cocked: a small detonation dislodged and collapsed the heavy oaken doors. The pews in the back rows were crushed under the weight and the room echoed the crash well into the second click. By third, there was the crack of a single shot.

It was Karl, a new addition to the squad with short-cropped blonde hair and a diamond tattoo on his left cheek. He swore in a manner unbefitting a first-class citizen of Harmonia and was hastily funnelling gunpowder down the barrel of his smooth-bore rifle.

Four weapons prepped.

Fritz swung his harquebus over the cloth-covered altar to face the door. He braced the butt of the weapon against his shoulder and did a quick sweep for the target. He glanced, frantic, about the room and found nothing. Trying to remain calm, he waited – Where was the mark? His trigger finger itched. All that had changed was the broken door and Karl giving away his position, between the pews, with noisy and inappropriate curses.

"Shut up, Karl!" Fritz snapped harshly. He couldn't help himself, this mission was far too important for him. With the promotion, he would be able to upgrade himself to second-class citizen status. It would mean he would have both right and property enough to free his sister from the pig of a Harmonian aristocrat who had purchased her at the slave auctions. He had trained for and waited years just for this opportunity and he wasn't about to allow Karl's pure-blooded ineptitude bungle it up.

His glare met Karl's own. The fair-haired gunner looked about to retort, but a small, spherical and metallic object interrupted his indignation. It landed at his feet with a sharp clank with a burning fuse growing shorter. His eyes wide with horror and alarm, Karl lunged away as fast as his reflexes would allow.

All too late. The explosion tore apart the pew and half of his left leg. He crumpled onto the stone, bleeding heavily from the wound and the multiple lacerations left by metallic shards and violently exploded wood. The sinister contraption hadn't been enough to kill him, however, as the once-noble Karl screamed in a deafening cacophony of pain.

A shower of shrapnel struck the back wall. Fritz reeled, having narrowly escaped the rain of death from behind the altar. Wasn't gunpowder their domain? The Howling Voice had strict controls placed on black powder – they alone were allowed to manufacture it and only in rare, extraordinary circumstances were others even allowed to purchase the stuff. Typically, instead of direct sale, gunners were to be hired to use the concoction for tasks ranging from mine demolitions to assassinations. Just who exactly was their mark if he had access to black powder? What sort of fool – or monster – would use the weapon of the Guild against them?

Over Karl's vocal anguish, Fritz heard additional shots being fired. He could identify each by the signature sound the individual guns made. Martin's carbine went first, followed by Werner's rapid-fire breechloader and Arvin's dual pistols. No confirmation yet of any scoring a hit – Karl was doing an absolutely fantastic job at making certain that nothing short of a thunderclap could be heard from Fritz' position.

_Lovely._

Allowing a few quick intakes of breath to ready himself, Fritz leapt up to level his weapon. Through the sights he watched, mortified, as a blonde man draped in a green cloak wrenched a short sword buried at the hilt out of Werner's midsection, spilling the contents in a splatter across the floor. Arvin and Martin lay dead at their posts, one with a long spike protruding from his head and the other sporting a second, gaping mouth from his neck.

The fiend of a sword master spun away from the gutted corpse and swayed rhythmically from left to right as his piercing eyes burrowed into Fritz. The gunner forced back the bitter bile forming at his throat, his body tensing in anticipation to fire. Before he could line up the shot, his target rushed forward, becoming elusive as the barrel of the harquebus bobbed at the behest of unsteady hands.

He had but a single attempt – there would be no retreat or surrender so long as the initial task remained undone. At last, the fifth firearm, Fritz' harquebus, was ready to unleash its terrible payload.

His aim wove right and left with the evasive charge of the target. Twelve feet from him, he recognized a pattern and moved his reticule to where the mark would next weave. He stilled the turbulence in his heart, ceased quaking and, with a confident squeeze of the trigger, had him.

"I have you!" Fritz thought on his promotion. He would be a second-class citizen! His sister, Emma, would never be made a slave again! They would, at last, be free.

A long blade knocked the harquebus barrel askew, the bullet succeeding only in lodging itself firmly into the crumbling structure. In panic, fear and disbelieving terror, Fritz dropped the weapon and fumbled for his knife.

"This… this can't be happening…" His lamented whisper swallowed by the whistling wind. Still seeking to undo the clasp which held his knife, he failed to realise the fast approaching stiletto that, with a straight thrust, plunged deep into his chest and lungs.

Anguish bled and filled his world. The dark-haired youth, previously so convinced of his success, reflected bitterly upon his failure. Tears streamed down his face as he coughed up his dark vermillion essence. He grasped at his killer, clutching the white striped scarf about the other man's neck and bore his misery into sea-green eyes. In return, he received a pained, difficult expression of guilt. His demise felt cheapened.

Enraged, Fritz spat the last of his bloody contempt, his hatred and regret, his dreams and desires upon the other's face, fell forward into the muscular frame of his enemy and died.

* * *

The usual bustle: the loud hawking of wares and insistent haggling from the marketplace, guards at the gate barking commands to keep the traffic of bodies regulated, children playing noisily at being heroes in the civic district. All were curiously absent. Instead, it was replaced with a dull stream of passers-by with questions as to where they could find such-and-so store or the residence of a distant relative. 

This agreeable day in Vinay del Zexay had but a single constant; young women come to ogle the occasional knight and a line of suitors for the daughter of Wyatt Lightfellow. That crowd milled about the main courtyard in an array of colour and fashion.

For Nash, a day such as this was a rare treasure to be enjoyed. At his fragile old age of thirty-seven he had to be wary of excitement, else brittle bones and arthritis would catch him unawares.

He plucked a smooth marble from a deerskin leather pouch and rolled it along the grooves in the cobblestone street that lead down the slope into the city proper, watching it hop and weave with the stone ridges. Half of the way there, another porcelain sphere joined it on its journey and both were collected by a small, shabbily-dressed child that retreated quickly. Lurking in the shadows, the boy thought himself to be hidden.

When Nash – on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, with Sunday off – had exhausted his supply of marbles, he would return to the slope to find the little boy atop of it and rolling marbles down the hill as he had been. The first time the self-styled senior citizen had retrieved his property, the boy cried bitterly at having been tricked at his own scheme. He had never even seen his "phooey marble thief", unlike Nash, who could see the boy's clumsy attempts at stealth without effort.

This exchange of back-and-forth continued and the child had grown accustomed to this new game, dropping the marbles as gingerly as he collected them. On occasion they would trade a friendly wave, though not when the boy was out to catch a glimpse of the "thief".

A green marble made its way downwards now. It leapt up and rode the hem of a young girl's skirt. She shrieked and scuttled speedily to the side in surprise as Nash sought to suppress an unrepentant smirk.

The marble continued down the hill as he raised a hand high in apology. She produced a nervous sort of half-smile in return. Pretty enough, he made his appraisal of her as she hurried along her way

"Marbles? Again?"

A tall, rather lanky fellow dressed in the uniform and tell-tale breast plate of the Zexen city guard towered over Nash's crouched form. A tinge of exasperation coloured his gruff, though lyrical and resonating voice. "What have I told you about dropping those marbles down this hill, Mr. Clovis?"

Nash craned his head to look upwards. "That maybe I ought not to?" There was to be no ploy at innocence or ignorance with that telling grin.

The watchman glared through the visor. "That is precisely what I told you, Mr. Clovis! And what do you persist in doing every Monday, Wednesday and Friday?"

"Actually, I engage in this hobby on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, with Sunday off…" He noticed the expression glowering down on him grow darker. "You know, I really admire what you do for this city. I can trade and lunch and sleep in my own bed safely without worry because of good, decent, upright…"

Another marble clattered down the path.

"… morally brought up men such as yourself working so hard to keep the public from harm."

"I'm confiscating them marbles again, Mr. Clovis. Give them to me."

Nash heaved an overdrawn sigh and placed the precious pouch in the guard's gloved hand.

"I had to import those all the way from Greenhill!" He feigned dejection. "I may get an honest price for them, but I had to do such nasty things to earn it. Holy Harmonia, Jeffery, have a heart."

His plea met rock. "All I have, Mr. Clovis, is a mind to file a formal complaint against you and obtain a council decree blacklisting you from ever importing those infernal things ever again. Why don't you ever do anything useful or productive?"

"You know, good Jeffery, my missus says the exact same thing to me. Why, I think she may even have used those exact words! Say, Jeffery, have I told you about…"

"Not this again!" Jeffery exclaimed in displeasure. "I've had about enough of the tall-tales about your missus or what-have-you nonsense about some miscellaneous garbage you concocted in Greenhill or Tinto and… and!

"Good day, Mr. Clovis!" He turned on his heel and marched importantly elsewhere.

"Awww, Jeffery – come on! I don't think I've told you this one…" Nash made a production of calling after the sentry. Getting to his feet, he looked downhill to the boy with a shrug. That was the signal that Jeffery had the marbles. With a point to the opposite slope, he let the boy know that they would play there next time.

The scruffy child gave no reply, thinking that he was unseen, and scurried deeper into the alley.

Now that marble-tossing was a wash, Nash sauntered toward the marketplace. Locating a gaggle of gabbing housewives, he infiltrated their conversation and regaled them with stories and laments of his missus. He was awarded a few consolations for his marital trouble and a couple of light raps on the head when they agreed with the actions of his absent lady.

They weaved their way through the wet market, purchasing various sundry ingredients for the evening meal. At the fishmonger, he found himself eyeing a rather handsome halibut. His entourage had ensured of its quality – checking for clear eyes and clean gills and other signs of good fish.

"Do you wish for me to gut the fish for you, good sir?" the merchant asked as he weighed the fish upon the scales against a couple of lead weights. Nash heard the soft jingle of a bell from under the stall and knowingly nodded his consent.

"I hope you ladies don't mind waiting for me a moment as this kind man cleans my fish for me. There is something about the entire process of removing the innards of a creature that makes me rather uneasy; I really don't have the stomach for it." He smiled as he heard some mention of his being henpecked.

"Liar!" His right arm itched uncomfortably around the leather strap under his long sleeves. The disembodied voice, serpentine, continued its taunting. "I've seen you gut more than mere fish. I've even seen you… enjoy the slow and methodical process involved..."

"That was different." He muttered harshly, unfortunately aloud.

The gaggle paused to look to him with concerned, motherly glances and he quickly conjured something which sounded similar and lent to the conversation.

"Why not kill them? Remember how glorious it felt to have the life of a middle-aged woman slip away at your fingertips…?" It described the gruesome experience further.

"Your fish is ready, sir!"

"Ah. Thank you kindly." He purposefully ignored the itch. "I have to ask, as I saw none here today – when do you expect to have fresh salmon again?"

"Four days, sir."

"Four days?" He looked incredulously at the nonplussed fishmonger, counting money idly. "I thought your supplier came in every other day!"

"We're having… trouble with our boat. We could try having salmon again in three… and a half."

"One half? You expect me to come by in the evening time when the other stores are closed? For fish?"

"We can try for three, sir. Three days."

He took his fish, wrapped now in thick newspaper, and discreetly deposited three thousand potch in the merchant's sleeve as they shook hands. His business here concluded, he ushered the collection of housewives away from the stall.

"Shall we ladies?"

* * *

He worked the twin blades in smooth, sure motions, wielding one in a defensive arc against the ancient sword gun, Talgrund, while striking with the other to keep Zaj off balance. His opponent – still taunting, still laughing, still mocking – was thus unable to level the derringer to fire. 

When the opportunity seemed to present itself, he slashed downwards towards an exposed shoulder with both weapons, but was denied access by a horizontal guard. Both of the combatants exhaled heavy, clouded breaths, their clothing clinging to their damp skin, drenched from the chill downpour. He had the worst of it as the multiple layers of cloth and leather grasped at him, generating resistance to swift movement.

Zaj pushed back with Talgrund, forcing Nash to take a quick, ill-judged step along the sleet-covered and frozen earth. The injury he sustained from falling off of the church's shingled rooftop inflamed as the swordsman collapsed under his own weight.

He hit the ground hard as his weapons spun away.

The soft click of a readied pistol became the single sound echoing amidst the tombstones.

"I win, Nash."

Zaj stood over him, the frozen rain staining the perfect folds of his suit jacket and his round spectacles hazy with condensation.

"I must admit, Nash," He allowed himself a low, confident chuckle. "You weren't quite as much of a challenge as I thought you would be. Unfortunately for you, I can not consider our first battle, long ago, an actual fight. Tell me, are you holding back, Latkje? Do you hold back for Julie's sake?"

"Why, Zaj, I thought you knew the answer to that one." Nash chided, his eyes reflecting bitter enmity. "After all, weren't you the one who kidnapped her? Aren't you the one holding her hostage now? Don't tell me this entire plan isn't your own."

They studied one another carefully; Nash examining the firearm while Zaj watched the blonde man's expression curl into a smile.

"It's the only reason I haven't killed you yet. Again. Like last time, Zaj."

Like last time, the familiar itch reminisced. The sweet nectar of revenge, how it desired to drink of that cup once more.

"Gloat all you like, Latkje." Zaj grew quiet. "Were you aware that your fool of a sister is still very much convinced of her love for me? Even after I used her as a puppet: an instrument to kill her own parents with! Imagine that."

He took meticulous and measured steps to the left, moving in a circle around his defeated opponent.

"I'm still debating on whether or not I'll keep the pure-blooded wench. It would keep me entertained, abusing her as I saw fit, having her crawl back regardless of what I did to her."

Nash fought against the fury welling up inside of him. A palpable anger and the bloodied call for providence disquietly drummed for dominance. It would all be to protect his sister. It would all be to defend Julie from this animal.

A brown hawk circled low from above. It deposited a silver pendant, which landed noiselessly in a bank of frost where Nash could see it clearly.

"I have no use for you, however-"

"How about this? I know something you don't." Nash interrupted. Something dark inside quivered with anticipation.

"Oh, really?" Zaj looked at him disbelievingly. "And what would that be?"

He hadn't noticed the pendant yet or the thin cord that connected the apparatus hidden in Nash's right sleeve to the long sword where it had fallen. The cord summoned the deadly Grosser Fluss. The Latkje family heirloom snaked in around Zaj who, in surprise, took a fatal step backward.

Nash allowed the rage to consume him as he buried the blade into the midsection of his bespectacled and bewildered opponent. It merrily secreted the magical poison that had failed to serve its purpose the last time it pierced the flesh of Zaj, five years ago.

Leaning in close, he whispered in a feral hush. "You no longer have my sister. You will never have her. Die, murderer."

The sword cheered gleefully in Nash's hand, sawing through spine and rib, slicing into vital organs as it was forced in a rhythmic back-and-forth upwards. His face was twisted, mirroring the bloodlust of the blade as he bellowed a wordless, inhuman wail. Nash continued to hack mindlessly at the corpse well into the dawn, long after the life had faded from the man who had stolen his parents.

* * *

Supper had been excellent. 

The halibut, broiled with a splash of lemon and spice, had a delicate bearing which contrasted well the piquant salad. Dressed with a whisked mixture of marmalade, Duck Village soy sauce, vinegar and oil, the ever-budding chef made note to remember the proportions of that particular vinaigrette. Once he had eaten his fill, he shared the bounty of his grossly overpriced fish with the neighbourhood strays.

It had been an eventful day. Once his excursion to the wet market was completed, he stopped to admire a talented troupe of buskers. Thanking them for their time with some coin, he then tried his luck at the lottery – winning yet another statue of a generic Zexen knight. Relinquishing the prize to a little girl by the waterfront, whose attractive mother graced him with a dazzling smile, Nash visited the harbour, where the local fop ambushed yet another hapless fool who, speedily and without ceremony, dashed away.

Nash rubbed his aching shoulder. He was glad for the brief refuge he had discovered here in the merchant city. The simple joys of life were so rarely afforded to him that he immersed in it when he was able. Still, it was a temporal distraction; there were complications that he could not avoid and also the humdrum matter of income capable of supporting his large and often unforeseen expenditures.

Such as the delicious fish or, rather, what had been cautiously inserted at the counter. He fed a white kitten the meagre remainder of supper and dispersed the crowd of vagrant critters before returning inside.

From his coat pocket, he produced a folded sheet of thick parchment covered in seals. The symbol of the Howling Voice displayed prominently, although a separate insignia depicting the sacred gun, Sturm, was also emblazoned. With care, and a special implement given to him by the new guild master, he avoided the inlaid security measures and cracked the letter open. Still cradling the letter gently – it was uncertain if the characteristically overzealous guild had seen fit to install additional traps – Nash squinted to read in the dim light.

_Latkje,_

_As per our arrangement, I investigated the reports of a woman matching the description of your wayward sister in the Outlands. I am sorry to say that they have been proven false. No new leads have emerged thus far._

_Master Jared met his end this month, leaving an awkward tip in the balance of guild politics. Those still loyal to the memory of Zaj have taken the opportunity to amass additional power within the guild. Their leadership continues to escape detection. They are fortunate: I would otherwise have never allowed them this much ground._

_To ensure they do not achieve too great a foothold, I was forced to ally myself with Master Mikkel, an old rival to our Master Sauro. How this bedding with devils will play itself out is yet indiscernible._

_By the way, he still hates you._

_There exist rumours that the usual assassin has been dispatched after you. Staying in a single location for two years is making it far too easy for them. If these were my students, you would have been dead long before now. I suggest you move elsewhere._

_Remember what you owe me… and be careful._

_Your ally,_

_Clive_

Stabbing at the symbol of the Howling Voice, Nash knowingly triggered the trap and allowed the letter to burn away. With a frustrated and weary groan, he reclined in his seat to meditate.

"Yet another lead debunked and no additional ones to follow up on next." He bit his lip. Moments like these had grown unsettlingly standard over the past eight years. He blindly travelled the continent in search of his missing sister, seeking to pick up on any indication of where she might be. All he succeeded at, however, was failure. He had never even come close, not even once. Lena, the young aunt who had acted as Julie's caretaker, was as baffled as he was.

Perhaps his only true accomplishment was in securing Clive's assistance. They had met at the funeral of Master Sauro, Nash having used the affair as a transparent excuse to slink back into Crystal Valley. He required information, but also needed to be mindful of the anti-Latkje factions roving the area. That had been five years ago, a decade after Zaj's death. He recalled being quite perturbed to hear that, even in death, Zaj maintained a strong following within the guild.

The news of Elza's death, however, Nash had anticipated. He had always expected her resourcefulness to carry her through and her demise was a sharp reminder of how frail they all were in the end. It was her legacy that allowed him to gain Clive's ear, if not trust. Like him, the knight-class gunner was disillusioned by the guild politics that had robbed him of his two best friends and was eager to find an ally of similar mind.

Nash buried his face into his hands.

He was going to need a drink, as he always did after enjoying the dismal correspondence he kept with Clive. Nights such as these made him acutely aware of the empty space about him. He would sit, alone, and drink, alone, and reflect, alone, on all of the possibilities he had disallowed himself. Contemplation would then fall on the false life he had created and the lie he'd be forced to tell his entire life.

It would evoke thoughts, of all things, about that Mikain hag and how she had been rather captivating despite her obvious flaws: being the stuck-up, selfish and immortal mother of the netherworldly vampiric undead was a worry. Still, even her obnoxious company would be appreciated. At least she would understand what it was like to be old as well as cursed.

Closing his eyes, he took the first sip.

* * *

"Well, Nash, are you coming home?" Lena Suphina, garbed in the dark blue overcoat of the Temple Guard, repeated the question. She had been asking him for five years. "Are you staying in Crystal Valley?" 

He watched the horizon.

"Crystal Valley is no longer my home. Besides, the politicians might see me as the embittered Latkje family survivor come to seek vengeance. Zaj is dead, as are six gunners of the Howling Voice. They'll use Julie to get to me again if I stay…"

It would be better if he just disappeared again. He used his sister as an excuse, but his true fears lay with the black and white hilted blades he kept hidden up his sleeves. They were cursed, he was certain; it terrified him to think of how they might next corrupt him and whether they would see fit to have him attack his sister next.

Or even Lena. Nash wished desperately to be able to share that burden, to tell her of the alien presence he felt while wielding the weapon. He couldn't: she would try to prove him wrong or delusional and he might well concede and follow her, or leave anyway and question the decision for the rest of his life.

"Won't you at least come to see Julie? She's missed you these last five years…"

Nash shook his head. He pulled the pendant from his pocket and pushed it in his aunt's hands.

"Julie once told me that she would keep the picture of the person most beloved to her in that cameo. Before her wedding, it held a portrait of Zaj. I remember being jealous that she didn't consider her older brother as dear." He chuckled at the thought, though his mirth was melancholic at best.

"It's empty now." He placed a finger on the blank space. "Strange, isn't it?"

"I'll take you back, nephew. Beaten and unconscious if I must!" Lena's tone grew severe. It seemed his attempt at subtle distraction had failed, but he was glad to know the Julie would be left in good hands. His mind was made.

"Hey, hey. We don't want this to come to blows now- Lena! Look out!"

Nash launched a high-velocity quill from up his sleeve toward the shadows behind her. She needed no further prompting and drew her sword, spinning about to meet the attacker. Though it was difficult to see in the gloom of the graveyard, there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Immediately, she turned again. Nash had used the feint to make his hasty departure. She should have figured that it was a ruse.

She examined the trinket. When she first retrieved it after rescuing Julie, she had never thought of looking inside of it and saw it only as a satisfactory message to Nash that his sister was safe. It felt odd in her hands.

Reflecting on her failure to rein Nash home, the vice-captain of the Harmonian Temple Guard began to walk away. She passed the mutilated bits of Zaj Quilos and paused briefly. The heel of her boot rested on a tiny portrait, made to fit a cameo, which would have described what the mangled corpse had looked like before: the person Julie Latkje had cared for the most.


End file.
